Proof of Life
by Besina
Summary: Sherlock is missing, in danger, and John is traumatised. They deal with it as best they can. Undefined relationship, and it works for them. Part 2 of the Ambiguity series.


Sherlock had been missing for three days. John was going 'round the bend, as were Lestrade - and Mycroft, in his own stoic way.

John'd known when and where he'd last seen him, as well as where he said he was headed. Lestrade had been diligently reviewing at the CCTV traffic cams for those areas with no success.

Finally, Mycroft showed up and together they retraced all the steps Sherlock was known to have taken on the day he went missing and extrapolated further where he might have gone.

They narrowed it down to a corner, a blind spot in the CCTV coverage, where Sherlock must have been taken, but the trail was already three days cold. Mycroft was still able to determine that whoever took Sherlock, they must have numbered two or three, more likely three, had taken him off-guard and quickly.

Sherlock was not the sort to let himself get taken without managing to drop some sort of hint, unless he'd been bundled off in a hurry - a task that would take the element of surprise and the need for more than two men, without seeming conspicuous, so three it was. In short, they were professionals, most likely with access to the CCTV cameras themselves or to someone who could pinpoint the blind spots for them.

That a ransom had not yet been demanded was worrying. And as the kidnapping of Mycroft's brother could be seen as a way of trying to exert control over Mycroft himself, it was treated as a breach of national security, and all but the most dire cases were put on hold as agents swarmed into the field searching for the detective and questioning informants in all areas of their work.

Mrs Hudson was on edge as well, but spent much of her energy fussing over John, which John, being on edge himself, did not appreciate. John took care to spend as much time away from the flat as possible just to avoid her over-consciencious nattering before he cracked and said something he would later regret.

Not that that stopped he, Lestrade and Mycroft from going at each other's throats as the hours passed, their energies and hopes sapped, and they went longer and longer without sleep. No apologies seemed to be needed between the men as they all seemed to understand the stress that underlaid it. Occasional cups of tea, coffee or cigarettes were handed around as tokens of continued friendship following particularly terse exchanges.

* * *

The call came from one of Mycroft's men at 2:27 a.m., that a run-down old house, previously used by squatters, had been seen to have rather harsh looking men that no one recognised, coming and going at odd hours. Sherlock's homeless network had proved useful once again.

New Scotland Yard cordoned off the streets and escape routes while Mycroft's men stormed the building, some quick gunfire was heard, then everything fell silent. Long minutes passsed before a crackling report came over the radio that the situation had been resolved: suspects were either dead or apprehended.

John tore free of Lestrade's grasp and went hurtling into the house panicked and yelling for Sherlock, who he gratefully found in an upstairs room, uncomfortably tied to a chair. His head hung low on his chest, and his face was bruised and purple in many places.

John sunk down on his knees in front of him, heart beating at an unsustainable rate as he slowly raised Sherlock's head and was greeted by the detective's eyes slowly blinking open.

Sound seemed to rush back into the world as he realized his friend was safe. Not dead...not dead...not dead... the words echoed in his head but made almost no sense as his fingers worked to free Sherlock from his bindings. Hands and legs freed, he raised himself up onto his knees once more, pulled the detective to him, holding onto his face and planted a few chaste kisses on his lips in quick succession before pulling him into a close embrace he vowed never to end, and allowing himself to finally exhale the pent-up breath he didn't even realise he'd been holding.

Mycroft and several of his men had entered and witnessed the exchange, but apart from Mycroft clearing his throat softly to signal their arrival, nothing was made of it. As the ambulance crew arrived, John reluctantly released Sherlock from his grip and followed the medics down the stairs, insisting on riding with Sherlock to the hospital.

Mycroft appeared slightly later to check up on his baby brother, as well as John, who looked well near the brink of exhaustive collapse. Sherlock was treated for nothing more than some rather nasty welts and bruises plus dehydration, while the sympathetic staff tucked a warm blanket over John once he'd passed out in the visitor's chair.

* * *

A day later, Sherlock was free to go and the two rode home in silence, if John sat slightly closer than strictly necessary, Sherlock either didn't notice or didn't mind.

They got out and slowly made their way up the stairs to their flat, Sherlock shrugging painfully out of his coat, while John paced the room, still red in the face and obviously agitated.

"John?" Sherlock asked. When met with silence, he repeated himself, then added, "you're flushed and your breathing is rapid. You appear panicked; the danger has passed. Is there something I don't know about?"

Silence filled the space while John still paced, chewing on his thumbnail. "I can't get it out of my head, Sherlock, it's like Afghanistan, all over again. It won't go away. I can't help envisioning that we got there too late, that when I lifted your head, it would have been limp, that your neck wouldn't have held a pulse. It was too close, Sherlock, too close, and I can't make it go away."

Sherlock stepped nearer to John, placing his hand over his blogger's heart, which did seem to be pounding as rapidly as a hummingbird's. "John," he intoned, calmly, smoothly, patiently.

John looked up, blinking back tears of worry and frustration. Sherlock slowly lifted John's hand and placed it on his chest, holding it there so John could feel its beat; slow, rhythmic, methodical. He slowed his breathing as well, and John's body started to follow suit.

"You need reassurance," Sherlock mulled quietly.

John looked back up into Sherlock's face, his breathing becoming less erratic as Sherlock's presence was becoming more real. "Proof of life?" his voice choked.

Sherlock merely nodded, backing John into the bedroom. "Proof of life, John," he said, slowly lowering his head and pressing his lips to John's, who melted into it, eyes finally shedding the tears that he'd been fighting ever since the whole horrific experience had begun.

The two had soon shed their clothing and lie on the bed content, side by side, facing one another, kissing softly, embracing and allowing their hands to trace one another's flesh. Finally relaxing, sleep soon took them both, Sherlock curled around his blogger, John's head nestled in against Sherlock's neck.

In the middle of the night John awoke slowly to the sensation of soft kisses being placed along his neck. He vaguely registered himself being rolled onto his back, before opening his eyes and seeing Sherlock looking down at him, eyes nearly aglow in the dim light. He leaned down and kissed each of John's eyelids, then his forehead as he began to wordlessly rock against him. John threaded his arms around Sherlock's neck and slowly joined in the lazy rutting. Minutes passed with no words, no sounds other than their panting as they continued to press themselves together, moving ever so slowly. Sherlock's body started to respond more actively, which set John's on the same course and their speed started to increase, minutes more of frantic huffing and dozens of moans later, Sherlock stiffened and spent himself with a low groan, before dropping his head down to John's shoulder, still holding himself aloft on his arms.

He could hear John's continued exertions and shifted to give him a muscular thigh to rub against. John gripped his shoulders tightly barely breathing "Oh, god, Sherlock," shortly after, as he too shuddered and came.

Sherlock cleaned them up while John continued to try to pull himself back together. He still felt like crying, but mostly tears of relief. Once back in the bed, they slid under the covers and stayed cuddled up until morning.

Most everything returned to normal the day afterward and nothing was said of the night before, not out of shame or embarrassment, but simply because nothing _had_ to be said: proof of life had been requested and given with as much emotion as either of them could put into it. Both of them were okay; now life could go on.


End file.
